The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  Contents

  Front Matter

  Prologue. The Stare of Death

  Chapter 1. Baca

  Chapter 2. Hunter and Hunted

  Chapter 3. Toby Lodge

  Chapter 4. Welcome to Poland

  Chapter 5. Opposite Numbers

  Chapter 6. Dead Drop

  Chapter 7. Means to an End

  Chapter 8. Cat and Mouse

  Chapter 9. Questions and Answers

  Chapter 10. Wimbledon

  Chapter 11. Contingency Plans

  Chapter 12. The Last Killing

  End Notes

  The Schoolboy

  Stephen Langford

  Copyright © 2017 Stephen Langford

  All rights reserved.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks go to my friends and family who continue to encourage me to write fiction, and to the CreateSpace editors who continue to help improve it.

  This book is dedicated to my long suffering wife Sharon, who has somehow managed to put up with all of my faults and flaws for over a quarter of a century.

  ***

  Receive a free copy of “The Jungle of Death,” a short story featuring the CIA’s Andrew Keeton on a paramilitary mission in 1967 Vietnam, as well as news about the upcoming finale to the Agent Orange trilogy, Jetsetter, and other free materials at my website.

  Author’s Note

  Welcome to the world of the CIA’s “Cavalry” division, and its top cold war agent, Andrew Keeton—code name Orange.

  This is the second book in the Agent Orange trilogy.

  Book 1 Agent Orange. Available here! It’s 1964 and the Cold War is hot! Meet Andrew Keeton, the CIA Cavalry’s top agent, who is plunged into a race against time to save a fellow spy captured in East Berlin. East versus West. Control versus freedom. No holds barred!

  Book 2 The Schoolboy. In 1965 Cold War Poland, the charismatic bishop of Krakow is targeted by both the Polish secret police and by the Russians. Despite being surrounded by enemy agents and traitors, Andrew Keeton still has a job to do: save the Schoolboy at all costs!

  Book 3 Jetsetter (due to publish February 2018). Chase Hawkins is a world famous adventurer—and an American-controlled asset with a very special talent. Then he’s suspected by enemy agents and is thrust into danger. In order to save the man, Andrew Keeton must dodge Bulgarian assassins, a nefarious new spy ring, and Hawkins’s own stubborn ego. It’s the thrilling finale to the Agent Orange trilogy!

  ***

  I look forward to building a relationship with my readers, and providing them my very best effort to entertain them through my fiction!

  Website: www.stephenlangfordbooks.com

  Prologue. The Stare of Death

  The character of a horse track changes drastically by the last race and becomes a bleak and uneven mixture of too few realized hopes and too many desperate last chances. The charged anticipation of the arriving crowd reflects their unfounded belief that on any given day they can be the big winner. This view is held by the owners, the trainers, the jockeys, the semiprofessional bettors, the broken-down track bums, and the lightweight fanciers that come from both nothing and from money. But by the last race, mathematics has had its day, and the grounds are littered with the fallen army of losing betting slips and shredded racing sheets. The finality of a day that began with such promise is at hand, and no one escapes this inevitability.

  Andrew Keeton had watched the drama play out at this crummy second-rate track, on this humid spring day in what was the start of the 1965 Kentucky racing season, for seven races. Post time for the eighth race, the last one, was only a few minutes away. To him, however, the event was not an occasion for casual pleasure or striking it rich or even for watching all of these curious people. He was there on a mission, but he had not yet decided what kind of mission it would turn out to be—send a message or exact revenge? He knew that it made a difference how he did his job, either carefully precise or in the mad chaos of emotion, and under the right circumstances it could mean his own death if he undertook it carelessly.

  Keeton was not careless. Today he was inconspicuously situated at an umbrellaed corner table with the dirty brick wall of the open viewing area at his back. His outfit was selected to blend into the milieu of the Kentucky horse scene, neither the snooty owner’s suit nor the patched knee and elbow of the country loafer. His casual slacks and thin cotton shirt covered the fit body, and his facial features were hidden by a pair of clubmaster sunglasses and a houndstooth trilby hat.

  “Another bourbon, sir?” the black waiter asked as he made the rounds of outside tables. He was big, sweaty, and polite. Keeton understood the societal differences between them, the reality of how each of them was regarded and treated. The notion of this man, a Negro, serving him in this sort of venue pricked his conscience. The image of those obscene plaster lawn jockeys came to mind. Keeton himself was a native Kentuckian but had never been able to abide any kind of bully, especially the systemic type whose power did not come from brains or effort but from genetics. Still, the man before him had a job and did it well. Let him alone to make a living.

  “One more, please,” Keeton answered. It would be his third, but he did not plan on drinking it. “Who do you like in the eighth?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t presume to lecture mister on the fine art of equestrian,” the waiter said, but when he leaned in to pick up Keeton’s empty glass, he lowered his voice. “But if I did, I’d say you couldn’t go too far wrong with Runnin’ Aces—nine to one, but he’s on a hot streak on a hard, fast track, and the jockey is a future star. It’s the biggest purse of the day, and I have a good feeling that both the jockey and the horse want to take it. I’d have just enough time to place a bet for you, sir, if you were so inclined.”

  Keeton smiled. “You know, Mr.…”

  “They call me Hoggy,” the waiter said. “No mister, just Hoggy.”

  “You know, Hoggy, I am so inclined.” Keeton pulled a money clip from his pocket and peeled off a twenty-dollar bill. “Put it all on Runnin’ Aces to win, and we’ll split the proceeds down the middle.”

  “Well, sir, I’m not allowed to—”

  Keeton raised his hand. “Let’s cross that bridge after the race. Besides, I’ll owe you for the drink and a gratuity, no matter what. We’ll settle up then, OK?”

  Hoggy smiled and took the bill. When he had walked off to place the bet and the drink order, Keeton focused his attention back on the man down by the track rail, whom he had been watching for nearly five races. It was his target, correctly predicted by his MI-6 liaison to be at this track on this day. It was no accident that the target was here in Kentucky—he was trying to find Keeton and kill him, after all—but neither was it an accident that Keeton was able to turn the tables and become the hunter. The CIA had successfully planted the story that Keeton needed severe recuperation after his last mission—emotional distress, it was purported—and had chosen to return to the familiar environment of his youth. The British agency had then waited and watched the suspect, who sure enough left for America under a cover identity during a presumed spring holiday to the South of France.

  Lucky for me, I know your face, you bastard, Keeton thought as he stood. The horses were loaded into the starting gate, and a moment later the bell rang to begin the eighth race. Hoggy returned and set the tumbler of bourbon on the table and handed Keeton the betting slip.

  “Meet me here after the race,” Keeton said, giving the slip back to him. “Assuming we win.” Then he began making his way down toward the track, through the ever-hopeful throng who had mostly lost their money that day two dollars at a time. The target was foolishly evident in his white tweed driving
cap and garishly colored checked sport jacket. The horses were just rumbling past the rail where the target was leaning in, racing sheet and pencil in hand. The race caller’s voice, made tinny by the cheap speaker system, washed over them. Keeton pushed through to the first ring of spectators and threw his arm around the target. Send a message, or revenge?

  “Hello there, Eddy,” Keeton said fiercely. With his other hand, he had extracted the switchblade knife from his pocket and thumbed the telescoping blade out of the handle. “Don’t move; just listen.”

  The British agent had whipped his head around. His eyes had first widened in surprise, then fear, and then looked down at his substantial gut to see the knife blade pushed firmly against him. He looked back up at Keeton’s face. “What’s all this, then, Yank?”

  “Good question,” Keeton said. “No, keep the hands up there, like you still give a damn about this race. It’s curious, isn’t it, why we’re both here? Just look at the two of us—me, a CIA agent, and you, the British traitor.”

  “Now wait a minute, Keeton,” Eddy protested but stopped as the knife was pushed just a bit farther into the folds of his torso.

  “I told you to just listen,” Keeton hissed into Eddy’s ear. “You have a choice. Either turn around and come with me—we’ll walk out like friends, studying the racing sheet together. Or I simply push the knife into you. The tip of the blade is poisoned. It’s a formula we stole from your friends at KGB—nasty shit, too. If it breaks your skin, the first sensation is a complete loss of muscle control. You’ll be completely immobile for ten seconds, and I’ll leave you leaning up against the rail. Then it’ll go after the involuntary muscles—that includes your heart, in case you weren’t up on your anatomy. You’ll die, and I’ll be long gone.”

  “Keeton, I—”

  “Your choice, Eddy,” Keeton interrupted, clutching the back of Eddy’s neck and pushing the knife in just a bit more. “Let’s go before I change my own mind. And be nice about it.”

  Eddy nodded, and together they turned toward the crowd. Keeton adjusted the knife so that it was between them, under the back of Eddy’s jacket. The dozens of faces they passed were completely absorbed in the race, and none of them even so much as made eye contact with the two falsely smiling men. Keeton led Eddy away from the public area of the track, past the paddocks, and to the remote and empty area behind the stables. Halfway to their destination the last race was done. The caller announced a photo finish amid various cheers and jeers.

  “Keeton, this is a mistake,” Eddy insisted when they had finally stopped, and Keeton pushed him roughly forward. “You’ve got the wrong man. I’m no sleeper.”

  “That so?” Keeton said viciously. “Then why are you here instead of sunning yourself on a French beach?”

  Eddy squinted at him, searching for an answer. Their previous mission together culminated in the sniper death of Eddy’s MI-6 boss who was also Keeton’s colleague and friend. Keeton had had a lover who had also been revealed as a KGB sleeper spy. The same sniper had killed her, too. Eddy’s expression finally relaxed in resignation.

  “In a few minutes, a team will be here to pick us up,” Keeton said coldly. “We’re going to sweat you hard, Eddy, all the way to Virginia and then on the long flight back to England. You’re going to tell us what you know about the sniper that killed Allen. But that’ll be child’s play to what the men you’ve betrayed will do to you. If you give us what we want between now and then, maybe they’ll let you live or even let you keep all ten fingers and toes. Or maybe they’ll just hang you in secret.”

  “Keeton…” Eddy’s voice faltered. “OK, what will it take to keep me here, in the States? I’ve got info, a lot of valuable intel for you. Just for you. About the sniper, about Capstone, and about the girl. OK?” He took a small step backward.

  “You’re Capstone,” Keeton said.

  “Is that what you think? Me?” Eddy said with a derisive laugh that Keeton found genuine. He glanced around furtively.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Eddy,” Keeton said. “Unthink it.”

  Eddy swallowed hard, then spun around and began to run, away from the track. Keeton closed the knife and pursued him. Eddy had twenty years and thirty pounds on him, and the chase was short. It ended near the wooden plank fence that framed the property. Eddy was already winded and stumbling, but as Keeton caught him, Eddy flashed a knife of his own, spinning back at Keeton’s throat. Keeton moved to avoid the blade but was sliced across the cheek, a grazing wound. Eddy then reversed and delivered a forehand swing toward him. Keeton caught the arm and used his other hand to extend Eddy’s elbow past its natural stopping point. The knife dropped to the ground. Then he tackled Eddy against the fence, and the two men smashed through the rotting wood and began rolling together down the adjacent hill, through the tall, unkempt grass. At the bottom of the hill they completed one final jarring rotation, with Keeton landing on top.

  Eddy’s eyes bulged, and he gave an awful cry and looked down toward his stomach. Keeton’s arm was between them, and when the American raised up, Eddy saw Keeton’s knife plunged into him up to the handle.

  “That’s for Allen Davies,” Keeton said softly. He held the knife in place as Eddy writhed and struggled and clutched at his wrist.

  “Help me, Yank,” Eddie pleaded. “Please…listen to me. I’m not Capstone; neither was the girl. We’re just a couple of recruits. Me for money, her for love. Capstone is now Waypoint. Is that enough? Is that…?” His mouth stopped moving as the nerve agent completed its circulation through his body.

  Keeton leaned in to listen, but it was too late. Then Eddy gave a final shudder as the poison finally defeated his heart, and the consciousness of his gaze gave way to the vacuous stare of death. Keeton let the knife remain buried in the inert body as he fell back into the grass and thought about what he had just done—and more importantly, how he had done it.

  I guess it’s revenge. He pulled the knife out of the body and tossed it as far as he could into the tall brush, then quickly emptied Eddy’s pockets of his false credentials. He climbed back up the hill and took one final look at the body with the incriminating red circle at its core and sighed and thought briefly about the layer of dignity that had just been stripped from both Eddy and from him.

  On the way back to his table, he washed his face at a hand-pumped water spigot, using his handkerchief to help stop the bleeding. The cool well water helped him return the mask of composure to his face and to focus. When he got back, Hoggy was awaiting him with a giant smile.

  “Well, what do you know?” Hoggy said happily. “I thought maybe you’d lost hope and left, but I was sure wishing you didn’t. Here, sir, is the winning ticket.” He held up the betting slip.

  “We won?” Keeton asked with surprise.

  “Yes, sir, we did,” Hoggy confirmed proudly. “If I might ask, what happened to your face?”

  “You keep the ticket,” Keeton said.

  “Now, sir, I told you, they won’t let me—”

  “Hoggy, I’ve got a feeling you’ll figure out a way,” Keeton said wolfishly. “Besides, you earned it. There is one thing you can do for me, though.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Forget I was ever here,” Keeton said evenly. “No matter what happens or what you’re asked.”

  “I never saw you, sir,” Hoggy answered, suddenly turning to collect up the bourbon glasses and pocket the valuable ticket.

  Keeton smiled and walked away but then began to mull over Eddy’s last words. MI-6 surveillance had apparently mistaken the cover name Capstone for Eddy himself, and the KGB had changed that name to Waypoint. This would explain the confusing signals that had been passed along to CIA lately, but it did not help them get closer to uncovering the sleeper spy situation. As for Lynette, Eddy claimed she had been turned—“for love.” Keeton stowed that prospect, and all that came with it, in the cluttered closet of his subconscious and returned to the larger intelligence issue.

  If Eddy is
n’t Waypoint, then who is?

  Chapter 1. Baca

  The first rule of the intelligence field—at least one of the first several—is to never fall into a predictable routine. This tenet applies to all aspects of daily life, from meals to clothing to driving routes. Otherwise, the job of your opposite number becomes too easy, and it is only a matter of time before his ability to know when and where you are going to be becomes a deadly disadvantage.

  Borys Gomulka chuckled as he thought of this training lesson and how it applied to the man he was being paid to follow on this sunny, crisp spring morning. As a part-time agent for the Służba Bezpieczeństwa, the Polish secret police, and as an avowed atheist, Gomulka could not have been more an “opposite number” to Kazimierz Paszek, bishop of Krakow. As for the bishop, he could not have been an easier target. Each morning he rose early, dressed in the same manner, or nearly so, save a few special occasions, and walked to the Wawel Cathedral to lead a faithful gaggle of parishioners and other clergy in their daily morning prayer. Afterward, he would leave the cathedral, walk through the Wawel Hill gate and down to Podzamcze Street, and then north on Kanonicza, perhaps accompanied by seminarians or other friends. Sometimes he would stop to say hello to the professor of architecture at the politechnika. Then it was east on Sedaka to Grodzka Street and north again to the big town square. There he would meet many more friends who had been drawn into his orbit of charisma and intellect, laughing and sharing stories and lessons in theology or philosophy. Oftentimes he would stop in at Saint Mary’s Basilica before walking back to his residence or to Wawel, stopping at the little Ukrainian bakery on Grodzka for fresh bread to take back to his staff. To Gomulka it was routine to the point of tedium, so much so that he had already written the bishop’s route into his small notebook. Still, as Paszek strode briskly down the path to the street, Gomulka dropped his cigarette to the pavement and ground it out, hiding the notebook behind an unfolded map in his guise as a tourist, and followed his man.